Footsteps outside a Wamu.
We looked just like Reservoir Dogs
That's right, we made one more journey to finalize that which was already over. It's more ceremonial really—no pomp, all circumstance. None the less, it's something we do when trust escapes town in silent stealth leaving disdain discourse and disharmony. We closed 2 savings accounts.
No more rainy days, we've had them all. It's time to take pail in hand and bail Robby, bail.
These were the remaining joint accounts. I closed them; MyWife stayed for half the transaction, then left to smoke outside. She wanted nothing to do with money that didn't transfer to her account. She was there for pictures and absolution though; sort of a smile and wave, clearing her of any evidence we ever belonged together. Outside of court documentation, and her stuff piled into a guestroom of my house, it's over and nobody can prove otherwise.
We're loners now. Wolves
Rowr.
Except wolves mate for life. You might want to scratch that. We're street curs? Sure why not. Street curs, I still get a furry coat, and trash scraps every now and then. I can live with that. Now If I can just find a rich widow to take me in. Naw, I'm kidding. I don't need that, just a warm place to sleep with love and pets. It's something I did learn through all of this: what's important, what I want.
So what was so important about taking all the savings money? This was water heater money, and spite and malice aside, Amex wanted a payment.
I took the money.
The cashier tried to be perky. Our bank now has this new floor plan, conducive to perkiness, alienating to order. Everything is open. No more line of tellers positioned behind bullet proof glass, it's just dots of stations situated like ladybug spots. It's like commune hippies got together and founded a bank. Once they got past the irony, they arranged everything in an organic refuge for greed. It's weird; it's confusing; it's where I go. They have my money. I am a lemming, hear me—what sound do lemmings make? Ok, pretend I just made that noise. I hope it's not too offensive...
Anyway, the girl tangential to us at the service dot asked how we were. She asked how our day was. She asked all the friendly questions, to show that the bank harbored no hard feelings. They would survive our withdrawal just fine.
I wasn't worried.
She asked for my ID; I handed her my drivers license. She asked for my account information; I gave her my debit card. She asked why we were closing the account; I gave her silence.
After running responses through my head, I went with, "We're, uhm, ah, we're uh, separating."
Separating? I couldn't even say "divorcing." The word tasted like bile. "Separating" was all I could cough up.
"Oh I see."
She saw? What does that mean? Was she judging me or did she really see? If she saw, why'd she ask? What else did Zoltara the mystical teller see? Did she see what's out there for me? Could she see past the platitudes of "You'll be just fine?" What exactly could she see? Nothing.
Thanks.
I could see I still needed the money, so I took it.
After we returned home, I checked my email. I don't get any, I just like to check. I'm like the old lady down the block peeping out for the Publishers' Clearinghouse van. It's never there, but she's sure it's on the way. She just needs to keep her eyes peeled.
I had mail.
It was a note from a friend of mine in Phoenix. He was supposed to meet me in Laughlin during the move out. He'd emailed to say he couldn't make it. Seems his parents were having an anniversary at Disneyland, so he couldn't attend my divorce.
Wuss.
So I'm spending next Friday and Saturday At Harrah's, alone. It's no big deal, I was going to be there anyway, it just would have been good to see a friendly face. I'm not worried though, I'll find some trouble; it usually finds me. So if you want to drop in, just look me up.
I'll be the fuzzy cur paddling in the pool.
Rowr!
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